


Laid Bare

by scandalsavage



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Anal Sex, Jay's all about that Dick, Kinda, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mob Boss Dick, Stripper Jason, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Stripping, This is just fun stuff, heh, stripper Roy mentioned, the dub con is just to be safe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 05:42:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19100851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scandalsavage/pseuds/scandalsavage
Summary: Jason is a journalist looking for his big break. He think's he's found it when he links the assassination of Judge Dent to the Nightwing crime family, a connection even the police haven't made.He takes the only in available.He may be in over his head.





	Laid Bare

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授翻/Dickjay】Laid Bare](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19200604) by [LeeZing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeeZing/pseuds/LeeZing)



> Got this on Tumblr and couldn't resist:
> 
>  
> 
> _Hello ! 🤗 Okay so, I saw that you aren’t taking requests at the time and I’m really sorry if I’m bothering you. I just had this idea about a mafia au where Jay is journalist and in order to get some intel on the mafia boss Dick he goes to a club and pretends to be a stripper just to get some info out of Dick’s men. Too bad he caches Dick’s eye. Really you don’t have to write it, but maybe at some point when you’ll have the time you could do a little drabble._
> 
>  
> 
> Still not really taking requests or prompts but like... this I couldn't stop thinking about it and now I have this whole mob/stripper au thing worked out in much more detail than I need and, as usual, this spiraled. I literally have zero self control.

He had tried. He had tried _really_ hard to find a source or another means of getting the inside scoop on the famously tight-lipped and infamously vicious Nightwings after the brutal assassination of Judge Dent. But the ‘family’ is a pretty close-knit group. They have to be, with how terrifyingly fast they’re rising in the world of organized crime.

It’s Jason’s big break. He can feel it. Even the police hadn’t recognized the Nightwings’ signature yet. And as a civilian, as a still unknown journalist, he could go places even the undercover cops couldn’t.

He just didn’t think it would be _here_.

Jason slaps yet another grabby jerk’s hand away from his scantily clad backside, expertly balancing the drinks on his tray, keeping them from tumbling over with the sudden movement, and glares at the thug it belongs to.

“What’s the matter, baby, my money not good enough for you?” the hulking brute in the expensive but ill-fitting suit growls threateningly.

“I’m a server,” Jason snaps, barely remembering not to roll his eyes. He’s only been here a week and he’s already been reprimanded for not smiling enough and being generally unpleasant to the ‘guests’. “Find a dancer.”

With that he makes a hasty getaway toward the reserved booth by the stage where he’s supposed to deliver the four neat, Macallan 65’s.

The strip club had been the _only_ opening in the Nightwings’ activities. All the other above-the-table operations were well-established, everyone knew everyone. The newly acquired and renamed, Dick’s Gentleman’s Club was the only place with a fairly regular employee turnover and as such happened to be hiring.

Even then, Jason almost didn’t get the job. The guy kept trying to hire him as a stripper, even gave an ultimatum, “I’ll pay ya ta get naked or I won’ pay ya nothin’.” Jason had refused in a moment of pride and indignation only to immediately regret it; what’s a little humiliation in front of some mobsters if it gets him a steady gig in his field and maybe a little name recognition? But the manager had blinked first and Jason realized how lucky he’d gotten.

Until the manager handed him his ‘uniform’ with a smirk and creepily watched as Jason changed into the tiny, stretchy ‘shorts’ which amount to two small strips of shiny black spandex, one on the front, on one the back, held together by too few strappy, crisscrossing laces. Jason is positive that anyone glancing at him from directly to the left or right will be able to see his junk. A couple of soft, black, faux leather cuffs and choker, each with a little metal ring, completes the ensemble and Jason thinks—considering how little separates him from the dancers—that at least if he was ‘entertainment’ he’d get tipped well enough to take some of the sting out of the situation.

He’d have to know how to dance though.

As he approaches the booth reserved for the Nightwings’ inner circle, he takes deep breath. Eyes down, ears open. Don’t draw attention to himself; do his job, but pay attention (so that he can do his real job).

“You shoulda seen his face, boss—”

“If I’d had to see his face, I’d have no need for you.”

“I guess. But you still woulda got a kick outta it. Eyes buggin out in surprise—”

“Zsasz?”

“Yeah, boss?”

“Learn when to speak and when to not. Or I’ll really have no need for you.”

That could have been something. But this capo is obviously smarter than the goons under him and Jason can’t linger any longer so he turns to leave.

His tray does fall to the floor with the abrupt movement as he’s jerked back toward the table by his wrist. He almost curses, it’s not the first time the metal ring has snagged on something. But when he stumbles back to the group, it’s more that something has snagged him.

The boss’s finger is looped through the ring. Jason’s so surprised and, one hand caught up by the mafioso, the other braced against the table, he’s leaning over the other man, halfway in his lap.

Jason makes the mistake of looking up at the man’s face, meets laughing deep blue eyes that threaten to drown him instantly.

“No need to rush off, beautiful,” the man says through a brilliant white grin that crinkles the corners of his eyes and exposes the dimples on either side of his mouth.

“I—I’m working…” he gulps, hating himself for being so obvious when the man’s smile gets even wider.

He yelps when another tug and a guiding hand tips him into the guy’s lap. He feels a hot flush start in his cheeks and move swiftly down his chest when the man keeps one hand wrapped tightly around his wrist holding it to Jason’s exposed thigh, and the other around his waist, fingers toying with the laces at his hip.

“Not dancing though, I see. Should be a crime, wasting a body like this serving drinks,” the mobster hums, fingertips at his waist dipping dangerously under the narrow square of fabric covering his crotch while the one on Jason’s wrist moves up to pinch and twist the piercing at his nipple. He knew he’d regret the shirtless part of this uniform sooner or later.

He gasps and tries to jerk out of the man’s arms only for the grip on him to tighten almost painfully as his exit from the booth blocked by the manager.

“Everything all right here, Mr. Grayson?”

Jason freezes. His blood runs cold and his breath catches. Grayson? As in _Don Grayson_?

There aren’t any great photos of the head of the Nightwings. And unlike most crime families, the organization doesn’t use their patriarch’s surname. It gives them an extra layer of separation that makes it almost impossible for anything to stick on the guy. And he didn’t become the head of the fastest growing organization in Bludhaven by being cuddly and charming. He’s ruthless and too smart for anyone’s good.

And he’s got Jason trapped on his lap.

“I thought I told you to hire the hottest dancers in the city, Waylon.”

The manager shifts uncomfortably. “I’ve hired only the best applicants and anyone I could poach from other establishments.”

“And yet you’re letting this one hide behind some, admittedly tiny, shorts.”

“I don’t dance,” Jason says, finally finding his voice, weak as it is.

“Can’t force the kid ta take off his clothes,” Waylon huffs at the same time, sounding very much like he wishes he could.

“Oh I don’t know about that,” Grayson hums. His hands are getting bolder in their exploration. He flicks a nipple just as a fingertip lightly brushes against Jason’s cock.

He tries to jump away again but meets the same death grip and blocked escape as a moment ago.

“He signed the employment contract, right?”

“Yes, sir,” the manager responds, narrowing his eyes, not quite sure where this is going.

“And Roy didn’t come in tonight because his kid’s still sick, correct?”

Waylon’s lips start to curl up in a mean smirk. “Yeah, Harper didn’t come in,” he says, obviously knowing more about where this is going now than Jason. He’d thought the stuff he signed was just regular employee handbook stuff. He really has to start reading the shit he agrees to.

“Looks like the entertainment you do have is stretched a little thin. Probably need another stripper more than an extra server.”

“Sure does look that way, Mr. Grayson.”

“You read your contract, baby?”

The three minions in the booth are snickering behind him but all Jason can focus on is the weird battle happening in his gut between fear and arousal.

“I don’t think he did boss,” Zsasz laughs, a cold, cruel, humorless sound that makes Jason cringe.

Grayson hums, dragging his fingers down across Jason’s abs, ghosting across his cock, to grip his thigh, digging in hard enough to bruise.

“It’s pretty standard for this type of establishment. If the club is short on entertainment you can be tapped to pick up the slack for the night.”

Jason swallows hard. He had definitely not read that part. “Fuck that,” he snarls. He’s pretty certain they can’t legally make him strip.

“Of course no one can actually force you. But refusing is grounds for termination,” the mobster says, twisting his hand to cup the inside of Jason’s thigh while Waylon watches with a lecherous, triumphant grin.

 _Shit_ , Jason thinks. It’s not like he _needs_ this job, it’s just a cover, but… it’s so early in the game to bail. He can kiss his story, his big break, goodbye if he gets fired now. He tries to tell himself that he was willing to do it before, if Waylon hadn’t caved. It’s helping. But not by much.

“Tell you what, princess,” Grayson purrs into his ear, lips brushing the shell, “You’re obviously a shy one. I kinda like that. So how ‘bout you give me a private viewing and we call it good?”

The way Waylon’s face falls and his eyes flash in irritation is nearly enough to make Jason say yes without a second thought. But that kind of thing is what got him into this situation completely unprepared.

With how the mobster is touching him already, he’d be surprised if Grayson is _only_ expecting a dance. It’s all kinds of predatory and wrong.

So why is that arousal in his belly winning out over the fear?

It’d be a lot easier if the Don wasn’t one of the most beautiful men he’d ever seen in his life.

“Or, you can head back to the changing rooms and clear out your stuff,” Grayson whispers, low and dangerous.

The next thing he knows, he’s being shoved into one of the private rooms in the back. The biggest one at the end that stays locked up for the boss’ use.

It’s dimly lit in blues and pinks and purples. There’s a small platform with a pole in the middle of the room and seating for probably twenty people at various distances spiraling out from there.

Jason swallows hard, again, as Grayson, immaculately tailored suit clinging unhelpfully in all the best places, crosses to the back of the room and pours himself a drink from the bar. Notably, he does not offer Jason one.

“Look, Mr. Grayson, I—”

“Dick.”

“—re… Huh?” Jason almost chokes on his surprise at the word.

The mobster chuckles at him. “Did you think it was just a fun innuendo for the club?”

“Uh… yeah. Kinda.”

“My name is Dick,” he says smoothly, turning a dark gaze back to scrape up Jason’s body, “Figured it’s only fair you know mine when you’re about to _show_ me yours.”

The shudder that rolls down Jason’s spine makes Dick smirk and stalk closer, backing Jason up until he almost trips on the platform.

“I—I really don’t know how to dance. Like… even—even normal dancing…” he stammers as Dick slips two fingers into the ring at his throat which, frankly, Jason had completely forgotten about, and starts to drag him back towards the nearest wide, armless, white leather chair.

Dick lets go of him before he sits, arms thrown over the low back, fiddling with a small bottle—probably booze—in one hand, slouching comfortably, legs spread wide. Inviting. Putting the large tent in his slacks on display.

“That’s alright, sweetheart. You don’t have to work the pole. Not that pole anyway.” The Don’s face is dangerously _hungry_ as he stares Jason down, smiling like he knows he’s going to get what he wants. “If you know how to fuck, you know how to give a lap dance.”

Jason narrows his eyes. He is pretty sure there’s more to it than that. At least, more to a _good_ lap dance than some mortified dude who’s so self-conscious there’s no way his movements will be anything but stiff and decidedly unsexy.

“Take off the shorts,” the mob boss growls while Jason is over-analyzing how to start and wondering if maybe he should give up and go home anyway.

His thumbs have hooked into the laces before he realizes he’s moved. With his brain working on other things he had subconsciously jumped to obey the order. That did not bode well.

“Keep your eyes on mine,” Dick rumbles, and Jason snaps his gaze back up to those dark blue pools of lust as Dick continues with the order to “pull them to your knees…”

Jason swipes his tongue across his lips to get some moisture as he slowly, deliberately, begins to work the snug spandex off his hips, down his thighs. He doesn’t miss the way Grayson’s pupils dilate further, even in the low light, or the twin twitches of his lips and the fabric over his cock.

“…and let them fall to the ground.”

Jason’s throat is dry, breathing ragged, as he lets the bit of fabric drop and straightens without taking his eyes off the other man’s face, even as the other allows his own gaze to devour every inch of Jason’s exposed flesh.

He can feel it. The touch of those dark eyes on his skin.

“Good. Come here.”

Closing the two steps of distance between them feels like moving in slow motion. He half expects Dick to reach for him when he’s within range but the Don stays put. Doesn’t move. Just watches him appraisingly.

When he speaks again, his voice is low and rough, like the roiling rumble of ocean surf crashing gently on a sandy beach. “Now you’re going to touch me. With your hands, your hips, your ass… you’re going to move against me like you want me to fuck you. You’re going to use that body to beg me for my cock. Make me believe the only thing you want before you die is me, so deep inside you that you can taste it when I fill you.”

Jason is rooted to the spot. That terrified arousal boiling so hot in his belly he doesn’t know what he wants to hear when he asks, voice cracking and quiet, “And are you going to?”

The grin he gets back gives him his answer before the words, “Oh, I think so. It’d be such a waste, just looking.”

Relief floods into him and somewhere, in the back of his mind, a nearly silent part of him is disappointed in himself.

“Well? Get on with it,” Dick says, prodding at Jason’s calf with a shiny leather clad toe.

He tries. He tries _really_ hard. But those eyes never leave him, rake over ever inch of him constantly. He’s hyper-aware of every shift of his muscles. That gaze draws his attention to every micro-movement, every small twitch.

He’s more fluid than he would have thought possible when he runs his hands down Dick’s chest, closing his eyes and letting the feel of the silk under his fingers lull him into a soft, smooth sway. But ultimately he feels the muscle hidden under that expensive material, coiled and treacherous, delicacy badly concealing strength, and he loses the softness… feels like everything he does is stilted and insincere.

Running his fingers through Dick’s hair as he crawls onto the man’s lap again, nothing between them but a thin bit of fabric, Jason’s pulse starts to race faster at the feel of that rock hard length beneath him. He rolls his hips down and that’s when the mafioso finally touches him, griping his hips hard and pulling him down.

Gasping, Jason curls his fingers into the lapels of the suit jacket as he leaks onto the powder blue button-up shirt.

Suddenly, he’s flipped around, barely managing to catch himself on the bit of chair between Dick’s spread thighs.

His breath hitches and he starts to tremble when he feels fingers kneading his ass, pulling it apart to expose what little of him had remained unseen, dancing lightly across his hole which flutters under the scrutiny.

The gentle pop of a bottle cap flicked open breaks the silence, the music of the club long since having faded into background static.

“You were better than I expected,” the Don mutters into Jason’s shoulder as he works two slick fingers in and out of him, spreading them wide and curling them against the clenching walls of his passage. Then, Dick uses his clean hand to nudge Jason so that he’s leaning forward.

Another flush of heat spreads across Jason’s skin when he realizes the position is so that Dick can watch his fingers, and soon his cock, get swallowed by Jason’s body.

“I’ll have Roy show you the ropes when he gets back.”

It takes a moment for the words to make their way past the haze of humiliated bliss that has wrapped itself around Jason’s brain. Even longer when Dick chooses then to sink his cock into him in one smooth push.

Jason chokes on his own saliva and his cry comes out shattered and needy.

Finally, his mind translates. “Wha-what? No. Not-not… a strip-stripper.”

Each word is broken on a thrust in, most of them hitting the sensitive gland deep within him.

“Yeah you are. Mostly just for me, my personal eye-candy. But I think I’ll enjoy watching a room full of people drool over you too. Every once in a while.”

Words aren’t working anymore. It took all he had to say the five words he managed. But the thoughts are quickly driven from his mind by the relentless pounding behind him.

“That’s it, baby… just like that. Fuck yourself raw on my fat cock.”

That’s when Jason realizes that Dick has stopped moving; that he’s pushing himself back onto the huge length inside him and pulling off just enough to slam back down.

He’s desperately seeking his end, desperately grinding himself against the criminal spearing him open. Desperate for release.

Finally, Grayson curses and Jason can feel warmth spread inside him where the mobster pumps him full of his seed.

Jason is practically in tears. He’s been using his arms to brace himself on the chair. He hasn’t been able to touch himself.

He is surprised, and grateful, when he doesn’t have to, when Dick reaches around and gives a few glorious, expert tugs to his aching, red cock, and he explodes all over his own belly.

After a few minutes that feel like much longer, Jason doesn’t resist when Dick shifts him, vacating the wide, armless chair and lying Jason back, face down, across the seat.

He whimpers in objection when his cheeks are pried back open, cool air breezing over his ruined hole.

“I knew you’d look even better wrecked. Take the rest the night off but be here an hour early tomorrow for a lesson with Roy.”

And with that, Dick Grayson, Don of the Nightwing crime family, a vicious, ruthless, criminal mastermind, smacks Jason on the ass and leaves him to figure out just what the hell he has gotten himself into.

**Author's Note:**

> I will not make this a series.  
> I will not make this a series.
> 
> I am strong. I can do this.
> 
> EDIT: I am _not_ strong. I _am_ making this a series. X'hal help me.


End file.
